


A Man Who Plays the Fiddle

by waldorph



Category: 1776
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-24
Updated: 2010-07-24
Packaged: 2017-10-10 19:13:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/103210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waldorph/pseuds/waldorph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Abigail Adams and Thomas Jefferson are pen pals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Man Who Plays the Fiddle

**Author's Note:**

> This is all leupagus' fault. God, how do these things happen to me?

He sent me needles. Not a pin in the entire colony, and the man sends me _needles_. You mustn't think worse of me, but I send the man saltpeter and he sends me back needles. Really, he is brilliant, but sometimes I despair.

* * *

All the _pins_ in Pennsylvania, madame, with our deepest gratitude. He foamed at the mouth today and nearly ran Rutledge through. At the time it was quite amusing, but it occurs to me that at this juncture it might be prudent to set aside funds for bail.

* * *

At least I needn't worry about a lawyer's fee, though Lord knows he'll likely offend the judge and get an even longer sentence, if not the gallows. He never could make things easy upon himself.

* * *

You'll allow him to represent himself? I'd no idea you were so weary of him, Mrs. Adams. At present he is threatening to light fire under Gen. W. Frankly, I am tempted to give him an encouraging kick, if only for my own peace of mind. I ask only one day's peace, is it so very extraordinary a request?

* * *

You, my dear Mr. J., are beginning to sound suspiciously like a beleaguered wife. On the one hand, I empathize deeply. On the other, I am grateful that in my absence he is cared for.

On that note note I should tell you that he enjoys his coffee (always coffee of course, never tea) with three sugars, his beer dark and with an excellent head on it, and that at the end of a particularly trying day he enjoys companionable silence (though it is rather…difficult to achieve the quiet. Innovation must be employed, but you are a man of many talents, and will doubtless find some way).

* * *

You are entirely evil, madame. Do you suggest I blow in his ear as well and have his slippers warm and waiting?

* * *

I have heard tell from your wife that you play fiddle most excellently, sir. In fact, not only has Martha spent precious paper extolling your talents, but John also waxed poetic on that very subject for quite some time. It has clearly made an impact. I'm sure you can make use of that particular talent.

* * *

My wife encourages me to practice while I am away from her, so I do not lose the talent.

* * *

By all means, my dear sir. If my husband can assist in the keeping of such a talent I can only encourage you to take full advantage of it. I only implore you to come to Braintree and display them for me some evening. I'm sure John will like the visit, and you must of course bring dear Martha.

* * *

"I cannot _believe_ she wrote that!" Adams blusters. Tom leans back and beams, stretching his legs out.

"You swore to love honor and obey," Tom points out.

"I also swore to be _honest and true_!" John says, waving his hands around.

"Really, Massachusetts isn't as dull as we had all suspected," Tom says, looking over the letters and then back at John, whose face is flushed as he determinedly looks away from them. "It's you. Come now, Mr. Adams. Let me loosen you up."

"I do not require…_loosening_!"

Tom gives him a long, long look, raising his eyebrows. The silence stretches. Adam shifts his weight around, glaring at the letters.

"I cannot believe you've been in constant communication with my wife! _My wife_—how did that even _come about_?"

"Martha wanted to write to her so that they could commiserate about their status as widows. I enclosed my best wishes."

"When did this—"

"When Martha visited. You had no scruples about writing my wife, sending for her to exercise her conjugal—"

"God," John groans.

"—Rights, and then dancing with her while I slept." Tom pauses. "You made quite an impression, by the way, she'd like to visit again, though I think Abigail would be rather put out if Martha got to experience both our—"

"Shut up, please shut up," John demands, and because this is the only way to get Tom to shut up (it isn't, but Tom's found it convenient to allow John to believe so), he stands between Tom's legs and takes his face and kisses him. "Worse than my _wife_ sometimes, how is it possible that I am damned with _two wives_?"

"Are you calling me a woman?" Tom demands.

"A _shrew_," John replies, and Tom hauls him over to the bed and shuts him up.

Tom smiles into it, and mentally composes his next letter to Abigail.

* * *

Have discovered an _excellent_ way to keep him quiet. As I write this he is very asleep, and very quiet.

I look forward to showing you my fiddle technique, madame. I'm sure we have much to teach each other.

Yours most affectionately,

T Jeff


End file.
